Skyguard: Reflections
by Jateshi
Summary: Arluthia Syranos is tired of war, something odd for a warlock who's reached the epitome of her calling. She's putting aside the Argent's banner and looking towards a new future as a mercenary. G, WoW, character piece, possibly chaptered, one shot atm.


**Title**: Skyguard Reflections  
**Author**: Jateshi  
**Fandom**: World of Warcraft  
**Rating**:G  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own World of Warcraft, Azeroth, Blood Elves, or Netherwing Drakes. I do own Arluthia and Tiaranis though. Sunfire Skyguards is the name of the guild that my level 80 warlock is a member of though sadly I think the guild is dead. ;_; Blizzard owns all the stuff I don't own I just play in their world. (Look me up on MoonGuard/US on either Arluthia, Kelorien, or Aranios!)

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**Skyguard Reflections**

Temporary barracks weren't the place of comfort Arluthia enjoyed finding herself languishing in - she was a proud, noble Blood Elf (from a nice family line, if she ever felt like trotting her surname out for the reactions it could get) and she enjoyed her creature comforts of a soft bed, a warm cozy fire in a brazier, and above all else, the peace and quiet of a private room. Anything less than a ten-silvers-a-night-inn was below her standards. Which, from the thin board of the walls and rough sheets of the bed she was sitting on, meant she was in the wrong part of town.

Her bags were all packed, her traveling gear safely and carefully laid out for easy access, and her favorite staff and wand propper beside the bed and on the nightstand respectively. Her Skyguard tabard, the brilliant gold and rich crimson an eye-catching and shiny combination, was folded lovingly and on the nightstand as well. Curled up in the room's sole chair, nestled on her favorite cloak like the pampered princess she was, a tiny proto whelp kree'd out occasional burps of smoke and haze while it slept and dreamt. In the inn's stables - with a promise of good behavior and to not eat the horses which looked "so tempting" - was the adopted mother of her whelping, a delightfully sentient Netherwing named Tiaranis that had been her companion since her triumph at Netherwing Ledge.

_//I should pick up a hobby again//_ she thought, looking over the rather mercenary assortment of items she had assembled for the trip back to Outlands. It'd been months since she'd stopped constantly fighting; the days had blurred to the point where sometimes she felt like nothing more than a killer in constant battle, endlessly fighting, healing, only to fight once more. She'd answered Tirion's call, the Crusade's call, moving beyond her distrust of humans to fight for a man (and the Light) that she believed in and oh, it had cost her. Friends, comrades-in-arms had all fallen to the death gods and while some had risen most of them had been changed. A shudder made her shoulders tremble remembering the first time she'd found a erstwhile companion trapped in the valley of the damned heroes in Icecrown. And then she'd answered the call sent out again this time by Jaina and Rhonin, and again from Tirion, again and again taking up arms for a cause she was starting to doubt. How could an alliance between humans and orcs work when Garrosh, the hot-head Thrall had difficulty controlling, and Varian did nothing more than cheer at every wound she and her allies took? The thought of working again with humans not led by Tirion... nails curled into fists, digging crescent moons into her palms as she remembered the painful betrayal of her people. Tirion she could believe in but Varian? Garrosh himself was no better.

It was time to pull back, move away from the front lines and the pageantry of striving for the champion's honors. It was time to devote herself to something new, something that would hopefully wash off the entrenched stench of gore and grit and grime and ease the memories of Icecrown. She could take her battles and the knowledge won from them and help raise up a new troop, steer them _away_ from the mistakes she had made. Her eyes fell on the tabard again, the first one not bearing the Argent Crusade's mark that she would put on in a little under a year. In short order she'd packed that little odd sight away under layers of tomes, not wanting to see the painful reminder of that closing chapter of her life. Who would believe a warlock would swear to the Crusade's cause anyways - certainly no one who remembered her would associate her with the Light. The people who knew her as a hero in Icecrown were either buried or still fighting against the horrors of the Citadel - none of them would be returning to the main continents except on a bier; her secrets - and the possible crimes - were safe.

"Looks like another sleepless night," she muttered to herself, careful to not wake the tiny whelpling. She unclipped the decorations from her hair, pulling out her earrings and tucking them up into a bag for safe keeping while she slept. Or when she slept, as the air was cooling off - hinting that night had truly fallen outside the building. Tomorrow she finally met the rest of the slowly-growing mercenary troop she would be drilling. Tomorrow they set off for the Eyrie. Tomorrow - everything started tomorrow. Her new life started tomorrow.


End file.
